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would be one of those forbidden pleasures.
    ‘Do you remember those outings to the Pointe des Espagnols?’
    That was Larmingeat. Ravinel came slowly up to the surface.
    ‘I’d like to have known Ravinel in those days,’ said Cadiou. ‘What they call a tough guy, I bet.’
    ‘A tough guy?’
    Larmingeat and Ravinel exchanged glances. They smiled at one another, and it was like sealing a pact. Because Cadiou couldn’t possibly understand.
    ‘Tough enough. In his way,’ answered Larmingeat. Then he asked:
    ‘Married?’
    Ravinel caught sight of his wedding ring. He blushed.
    ‘Yes. We live near Paris. At Enghien.’
    ‘I know the place.’
    There were pauses in the conversation. They had plenty of time to study each other. Larmingeat too wore a wedding ring. Occasionally he wiped his eyes, for he wasn’t in the habit of drinking spirits. There were any number of questions Ravinel might have asked him. But what was the use? Other people’s lives had never interested him.
    ‘How’s the housing programme getting on?’ asked Cadiou.
    ‘Not too badly.’
    ‘What does it cost nowadays to build a bungalow? A decent one, but nothing out of the way.’
    ‘It depends. Four rooms and a bathroom—a really well-fitted bathroom, mind you—it’d run you into a couple of million francs, I dare say.’
    Ravinel called the waiter.
    ‘Shall we make it the same again?’ suggested Cadiou.
    ‘Afraid I can’t stop,’ said Ravinel. ‘Got an appointment. You’ll excuse me, won’t you, Larmingeat.’
    They shook hands with him limply. Larmingeat looked a trifle put out, but he was too discreet to ask any questions.
    ‘You might just as well stop and have lunch with us,’ grumbled Cadiou.
    ‘Another time.’
    ‘That’s a deal. And I’ll take you to see the bit of land I’ve bought at the Pont de Cens.’
    Ravinel hurried away. He had behaved awkwardly and he cursed himself for having lost his nerve. But he had always been sensitive. Was that his fault? Besides, under the circumstances… Would anyone else in his place?…
    The hours dragged on. Darkness fell. In the evening he drove to a garage. Oil and grease. Gas. To be on the safe side, he had two cans filled up as well. That done, he drove slowly to the Place du Commerce, past the Bourse, and crossed the esplanade of the Île Gloriette. On his left was the port, the lights trembling on the broken surface of the Loire. A Liberty ship was moving downstream. He had never felt so close to things, so detached from himself. All the same his nerves were stretched taut and his chest contracted at the thought of the ordeal that lay ahead.
    An interminable freight train rumbled past. Ravinel counted the cars. Thirty-one. Lucienne must have left the hospital by now. He would leave it to her to finish the work. After all, it was her idea, the whole thing… The canvas. He suddenly thought of the canvas. He knew very well it was in the back of the car, yet he couldn’t keep turning round to make sure. A ‘California’ canvas sheet which he carried round as a sample, for he dealt in all kinds of camping equipment too. When he turned back, there was Lucienne, coming up noiselessly on her crêpe soles.
    ‘Hallo, Fernand! All right? Not too tired?’
    Before even opening the door, she took off a glove to feel his hand. Having done so, she made a face.
    ‘You seem pretty jumpy to me. And your breath smells of drink.’
    ‘I had to. I had to be seen by plenty of people—you said so yourself.’
    He started up the car and they went along the Quai de la Fosse. It was the rush hour. Dozens of little white lights zigzagged about, crossing each other and recrossing. Cyclists. Ravinel had to keep a sharp lookout. If he knew next to nothing about the inside of a car, that didn’t alter the fact that he was an excellent driver. For a while he had to drive very cautiously, but after the transporter bridge the traffic thinned out and it was quite easy going.
    ‘Give me the keys,’